The Colors of The Queen
by Angel of Iowa
Summary: "You are a Queen, my love. You must show them all your true colors." "I'm not sure I can, I'm too scared." "Don't worry, I shall be always by your side." "Promise?" "I promise." Hidden plot AU, diverging at the rooftop scene.
1. Chapter 1

**The Colors of the Queen**

 **By Angel of Iowa**

 **Copyright 2016**

"There is no Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul sang from behind her.

Christine stiffened and turned around. "How can you say that, Raoul? A man was hung onstage in front of your own eyes and those of the audience. How can you still insist that what I say is false?" She asked in disbelief.

"Christine, you are clearly unnerved and frightened. I agree, it was a tragedy, but it was an accident. He fell and must have somehow gotten the rope wrapped around his neck." He said, attempting to soothe the young woman standing before him.

"No Raoul…this was no accident…this was the work of a man…" She told him slowly. ' _One that captivates my heart and mind with his music, until I cannot escape._ '

"Christine, please! The catwalks are a dangerous place, I heard Madame Giry say so myself. It was a horrible accident." He came up behind her and turned her to face him, keeping his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I'll bring you home with me tonight, that way you can rest and calm your nerves without any other men trying to claim your attention and time. Perhaps we can…catch up on what we have missed in each other's lives over dinner?" he asked.

Christine stared at him in shock. ' _Dinner? Go home with him? Any other men? Does he mean my Angel?_ ' she wondered. "Raoul, I'd be honored, b-"

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "I'll retrieve you from your dressing room a little while after the performance concludes, so you may have time to change and pack an overnight bag. Now, we must hurry; they'll be resuming the performance soon." He grabbed her arm and began to pull her towards the door they had come out through.

"Raoul, stop! Listen to me!" she pulled her arm back from his grip. He turned and looked at her questioningly. "Please, Raoul, I need a few moments alone to collect myself. You go back in, the managers will surely appreciate the help of a patron in reassuring the crowd. I'll be down in a minute." She said.

"Are you sure? You were rather unsettled by the accident." He asked.

She forced a smile, yet underneath she was seething. ' _It wasn't an accident!_ ' "Yes, Raoul, I'll be fine. There's no one but us up here."

Nodding his acquiescence, he left down the stairs, and Christine stood alone on the rooftop looking over the streets of Paris, under the starry winter night sky. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a breath of the crisp air, before calling, "I know you're there, Angel. Please, come to me. I want to speak with you."

For a few breathless moments, all was silent, and she wondered if she really sensed him, or if it was only wishful thinking. Then, the sound of snow crunching under boots was heard, and her Angel appeared from the back of the statue of Apollo's Lyre.

He came to stand before her, silent except for his footsteps, and the sight of him took her breath away. Tall and well-built, he seemed to be appropriately dressed for a night at the opera, the capelike style of his cloak presenting an image of a storybook king of old, rather than that of a dandy like many of the men she had seen wearing that style in the past.

"Yes?" his voice startled her out of her reverie. She blushed crimson, and looked down at the ground. The memory of what had occurred, what he had _caused_ to occur not fifteen minutes ago sobered her, and the slight smile dropped from her face.

"What happened tonight wasn't an accident, was it?" she asked in resignation. He shook his head. "You killed him. You killed Joseph Buquet."

"I did. You knew this already, Christine. I heard you tell that _boy_ so." He answered curtly.

"But why? Why would you kill him? I know that he has often told tales of you, to scare the dancers, but telling stories surely cannot be a crime. You-you don't even remotely match the description that he gives us in them! You clearly have a nose, and I have felt for myself that your skin bears no resemblance in either appearance or texture to yellow parchment! So why did he die?" she asked.

The Phantom sighed and stepped closer. Christine refused to back away, staring into his clear emerald eyes with an unexpected fierceness that both ignited his blood and made him want to turn away in shame. "Buquet…he was a drunken sot. As are many of the other stagehands, but him most of all. And the stories he spread about me nearly broke the rule of silence. But even if he had, none would have believed him; they would have thought it nothing more than drunken ramblings." He turned away, and walked to the edge of the rooftop, gazing out over the rooftops and quiet streets of Paris. "However, of late his actions became more and more suspicious, verging on dangerous. He managed to spot me on the ceiling tier by the chandelier, and followed me through the door. The door itself isn't secret, it's simply hidden in the pattern and used when the painting needs cleaning. But this time, he got too close, and almost managed to catch me."

"You killed him simply because he _almost_ caught you? That isn't enough justification, Angel, and you know it, and so do I. So what is the real reason for his death, that you are so reluctant to tell me?" she questioned.

The Phantom sighed, and closed his eyes in pain. "Christine, please understand, I did not have any choice but to dispose of him, for the safety of all the women who work here, but also for your safety personally. Buquet…he was far too fond of girls, the younger ballet girls in particular. That's why I locked you in your dressing room last night; he had drilled a hole into the wall of your dressing room and I did not want to see what I knew he had planned. If he had gotten to you before I did, Christine, and had done what he had planned to do, I would have torn him limb from limb in vengeance, and none in this world, not even you, would be able to stop me." He broke off there, hoping that Christine would read between the lines of what was said and what was meant, and he would not be forced to say the dreadful words aloud.

Apparently, in her remarkable innocence, she could not. "Angel, I don't understand. You locked me in? Why? Buquet was simply a harmless annoyance, too drunk to be dangerous."

"He was more of a monster than I am, Christine! His wife – now his widow – has been seen to walk about the city with bruises and scrapes all over her face, and more than one ballet girl has had to leave this place for her own protection, because he forced himself on her." He paused, and turned around to look at her. "Do you remember Jeanette Binet?"

"Somewhat. I was only twelve when she left. But nothing happened to her, she got married and left to live in Italy with her husband – Pierre, I think his name was." She answered in confusion.

The Phantom shook his head. "No. That's what I instructed Madame Giry to tell all of you, to prevent fear from spreading through the ranks of the dancers to you, and rendering your naïveté. Joseph Buquet forced himself on Jeanette, but this time, it didn't stop there – he got her with child. This is a man's world, my dear; he claimed he hadn't ever touched her, so he hadn't touched her. She was sent away in disgrace, and I don't know what happened to her." He said.

Christine's eyes widened and her hand came up to cover her face. ' _Dear god. He-he would have done that to me. Oh god…_ ' she sank to her knees, light-headed as the blood drained away from her face. She gulped. "I see. So-so you did… _this_ to protect me? Why?" as he turned away from her, more and more questions sprang into her head. "Who are you, and what am I to you, that you would do this dreadful deed for me? What do you wish of me? From me?" she pleaded, standing up.

The Phantom's lithe form abruptly tensed. "You must return. You are needed to perform as The Countess, and even my influence cannot excuse you from being more than a few minutes late. Return to your dressing room. Go." He commanded, ignoring her questions.

"I will not return to my dressing room without answers! Please, Angel, I need to know. Why will you not tell me?" she asked once more, coming closer with each word that left her mouth.

At the light touch of her hand on his shoulder, The Phantom turned around and gripped her by the wrist, hard. "Get back to your dressing room, you foolish child! I cannot answer your questions, not now, perhaps not ever. Now go!" he roared, releasing her with an angry flourish, his eyes having turned from their normal dark, mysterious green to a hard, furious grey, glinting like flint in the moonlight.

Christine released a cry of fear, and raced to the door, throwing it open. Just before she could go through, and reenter the world below, she looked back at The Phantom, who faced away from her, arms crossed and shoulders rigid. "I'm sorry, Angel." She whispered, knowing he would not hear, that the snow would catch the sound before it reached him. Then she turned and closed the door behind her, descending the stairs into the opera house.

Once she had left, the tension in The Phantom's shoulders disappeared, and he let out a sigh of relief. ' _ **That was too close. She cannot ever know all of your secrets.**_ _But why? If she is ever to consent to sharing her life with me, she'll need to know all of who I am._ _ **But too much can be just as destructive as too little; or have you forgotten what happened?'**_ At this he cringed, thinking back to that horrid day. ' _As if I could ever forget! You're right, I can't tell her, for her sake. I can't let that happen to her._ _ **And it won't, so long as she doesn't know. But you must go back now, or you shall miss her performance, and you may be needed once again to protect her from the boy.**_ _Yes, master._ '

As he descended the hidden stairs, he heard the music for the opera start up again. ' _Light comedic trash. This is not what keeps a theatre running!_ _ **So what are you going to do about it, hmm? You, and you alone have the power to change what music plays in your kingdom.**_ _I cannot do anything, these managers will not obey me! They think I am but theatre superstition!_ _ **If fear cannot motivate them, greed can. You've seen the way they look at the girls, at Christine; they are here for a fortune, for the fame owning an opera house will give them. They are not artists; they will run this theatre into the ground if you do not interfere.**_ _But what can I do? I have no better option for them._ _ **So create one. Create an opera so dark, so dramatic, so perfect that they cannot help but perform it. You will captivate their minds, their hearts, their very souls with your music.**_ _But what good will it do, if they don't know who the composer is?_ _ **Don't you see? That's the beauty of it: you reveal yourself as the composer at the end of the opera, and the audience will be so astounded, that they won't care about the mask.**_ _Not care about the mask…? How is such a thing possible? I have spent my whole life trying to avoid society, for it shunned me first. No! I will not do it, they do not deserve my genius. It will be wasted on them, and so will the truth._ _ **Perhaps the truth will, but not the music. Not your genius. They will accept you for it…love you…and so will Christine. You can finally have what you have always dreamed of, and all you need to grasp it is the perfect opera.**_ _And what do I call this perfect opera?_ _ **Don…Juan…Triumphant.'**_

Christine drew in a ragged breath, a disbelieving smile on her face. Piangi turned to her and took her hand, a genuine, supportive smile on his face. He kissed the hand he held in his own, and they both took a final bow toward the audience as the curtains closed.

A gaggle of ballerinas and chorus members immediately surrounded Christine and Piangi, clamoring for their attention.

"Christine, you were positively fabulous!"

"Oh, please, do tell us who your teacher is? Please, Christine?"

"The managers simply _must_ let you keep playing the Countess! Carlotta's far too old for the part, anyway."

Eventually, with the assistance of Madame Giry, Christine managed to break away from the crowd and escape to the peaceful quiet of her dressing room, the unsettling events of earlier blissfully forgotten in her joy for her most recent triumph. A tiny maid scurried in, holding a small pink bottle of liquid.

"Here you are, Mademoiselle Daae." She squeaked, much like the mouse she somewhat resembled.

"I'm sorry, what is it?" she asked.

"Oh, sorry, Mademoiselle, I forgot that you're not used to the fancy trappins. It's to take your makeup off with, you put a bit in water and the stuff comes straight off. Do you need me to help you?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, could you? It would be a tremendous help." Christine sighed gratefully.

The small girl, no more than fourteen at the most, nodded and retrieved a cloth from the vanity. Wetting it and pouring a small bit of the solution onto it, she handed it to Christine and instructed her to just spread it over her face as best she could. She continued with setting up the remover in the water basin, and between the two of them, they eventually got all of the makeup off.

"There we are, good as new." She proclaimed, satisfied. "Will you be needing my help for anything else tonight, Mademoiselle?"

Christine smiled sheepishly, and asked, "Could you help me get this dress off? I can't possibly do it on my own."

The little maid nodded, and quickly set to work on the laces. Once Christine was freed from the tight corset, crinoline, and multiple layers of fabric the costume needed, the girl handed her the white robe she had worn the previous night. "There you are, Mademoiselle, all finished. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be getting on with my other duties. Goodnight."

Christine smiled at her absently, then turned and called after her just as she was about to open the door. "Wait! I'm afraid I never caught your name, Mademoiselle."

She smiled uncertainly, startled. "Me? My name's Celestine, Mademoiselle."

Christine nodded. "Well, thank you for your help tonight, Celestine. I appreciate it very much."

Celestine looked down at the floor shyly. "Was no trouble, Mademoiselle. I was just doing my job. Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be going. Madame Beauchamp gets very cross if any of us are late for our duties. Goodnight, Mademoiselle." With that, she left in rather a hurry.

Christine picked up her hairbrush and started running it through her hair, wincing when it hit a snarl. She was nearly finished, and humming the overture to Il Muto under her breath, when the door opened and Raoul swept in, once again carrying a bouquet of flowers that were, in her opinion, rather gaudy and garish. "Raoul! What in the world are you doing here? Everyone else must have long since left by now." She exclaimed.

"Don't you remember, Christine? You said you would have dinner with me, and then spend the night at my home to rest away from the scene of that awful accident. Have you packed your bag yet? And of course, you must put on some warmer clothes, Christine, it's terribly cold out." He said.

Christine gawked at him, appalled that he would lie to her face about a promise she had clearly never made. ' _And enter a lady's dressing room without permission, as well! I'm hardly decent, he should have known that was a possibility!_ ' she thought to herself. "Raoul, what is this you speak of? I never told you I would accompany you to dinner, and I am certainly not going to go spend the night at your house without a chaperone! In fact, I am not going to leave this opera house this evening, sir! Now, I would appreciate it very much if you would leave me in peace, as I am exhausted from my performance, and wish nothing more than to sleep. In my bed, in the room I share with Meg." She declared.

Now it was Raoul's turn to stare in disbelief. "But, Christine, you told me earlier that you would be honored to accompany me to dinner! What is this game you play, Mademoiselle?" He questioned.

She thought back to the conversation on the roof, and sighed. "Raoul, you misunderstand." His expression perked up at that. "I did say I would be honored, true, but then you interrupted me and did not hear the rest of what I wished to say. What I was going to say was that I am honored by your invitation, but that I simply cannot accompany you. It is clear that you have hopes and desires for us, well, what _us_ there is, that I simply do not share. I am devoted to my music, and my teacher does not wish me to entertain suitors, for fear that they shall distract me from my music." She explained gently.

A sudden, dark scowl suddenly appeared on Raoul's face. "Ah, yes, your _teacher_. You said last night that you were taught by the Angel of Music, Christine. And yet now you speak of this teacher of yours as if he were a living being, not a celestial one. Tell me, Christine, who is this mysterious teacher of yours really? Is he a man? A ghost? An angel?" he turned around and laughed disdainfully. "Or is he all of these things, and a King as well?" he asked sarcastically.

Christine blanched, then turned red in anger. "Leave, Raoul. I wish to go to bed, and I have no desire to carry this conversation any further. Go." She commanded, pointing towards the door.

Raoul sneered at her and made a low bow, before backing out and slamming the door behind him. Christine ran to the door and quickly locked it, before slumping against it in exhaustion. ' _That was far too close. I must speak to Madame Giry about him in the morning, before this situation goes any further._ ' She thought, before stretching out on the chaise lounge and promptly falling asleep.

 **A/N: Hi everyone! This is the first chapter of my newest story, I hope you all enjoyed it. This story is by no means going to be easy on the characters, and will be quite angst-heavy as it goes on. It will also be quite heavy on symbolism and foreshadowing, so you will need to pay close attention, especially when Erik, Christine, Raoul, or Madame Giry is talking. If you ever have any questions, please feel free to ask, I'll do my best to answer without giving anything away. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

_I can't believe that she would reject me like that!_ The Vicomte fumed silently as he stomped out of the opera in a huff. _not two hours ago, she was terrified that that_ _ **monster**_ _would hear us speak, dragging me up to the roof, insisting that the accident was no simple happenstance! What…_ _ **thing**_ _could possibly have such an influence over her mind?_ He wondered. _Whatever it is, I swear, here and now, that I will free her from its influence._

The next two weeks for Christine were a bizarre mix of the different speeds that time travels at. At some points, she looked up to the nearest clock, shocked to see that sometimes, an hour had passed in what she had felt to be merely five minutes. At others, particularly when the managers would attempt to interfere in rehearsals and required both Madame Giry and Monseiur Reyer to steer them back towards their offices, twenty minutes would seem to be two hours. Finally, it was Saturday night, and there was no performance, so that all performers would – theoretically – be awake and animated enough Sunday morning to go to church. Now, most often only the younger girls, Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry actually attended, and the free night was used for…other things.

But tonight was different. That night, Christine was not going to bed. Not right away, at least. That night, she was going to make yet another possibly fruitless attempt to see her angel again. She locked her door, turned and walked towards her mirror, and laid her palm against the cool glass. "Please, Angel…if you're there, please come speak to me. Enter, Maestro… _please_ don't leave me alone any longer." She whispered.

She was prepared for nothing to happen, for the glass to stay put, as it had for the past several days. However, this time, she felt a small vibration in her fingertips. She looked up, and stepped back, just as the mirror shifted to her right on a hidden track. "Angel…" she trailed off, a faint smile on her face.

Erik stepped into her dressing room, greeting her with a nod. Looking at her, seeing the blatant hope and joy on her face, brought a now – familiar tightness to his chest, and an overwhelming urge to _protect_ her, to spirit her away to his home and never again let those undeserving fools who claimed to be managers hurt her or her reputation, as they had already done the night of her debut with Firman's assertion that "it would seem that they had met before." Innocent enough on the outside, but the insinuation had been overheard, and now everyone believed that his precious Christine had slept her way into her position, rather than earning it, as was the truth.

He shook off the displeasure of his countenance, and faced Christine with a faint hint of a smile. "You wished to speak with me?" he asked in his smooth, almost liquid baritone.

Christine's knees shook for a moment at the sheer pleasure of hearing his voice again. How was it possible that a simple sound could cause one to throw away all propriety, and entertain fantasies that no decent lady would ever allow to see the light of day?

Seeing his questioning expression, she buried that thought, remembering what she wished to ask him. "Why have you stayed away? Have I displeased you in some way?" a memory from the night of her debut resurfaced, and she quickly said, "If it's about Raoul, I swear, Angel, that nothing happened. He asked to take me out to dinner, and I refused. That's all." He cut off her babbling with a single wave of his hand.

"My absence has nothing to do with you or that _boy_ , Christine. You have done nothing."

She looked relieved. "But, if it hasn't anything to do with me, why have you been staying away?"

He looked at her distantly then, as if he were not really seeing her, but lost in another world. "I have been composing, my dear, and I'm afraid I simply lost track of the time."

Christine looked at the floor, confused. "You've spent all this time composing? What music could possibly take so much time? And hold your attention for so long?"

His eyes misted over completely, as he thought of the dark, bombastic, decadent triumph that was his opus. Looking in Christine's direction, imagining her in the revealing gypsy costume of Aminta, another aria leapt into being in his mind, and he had to resist the urge to rush back to his domain and pen the notes to paper.

"Angel?" Christine prompted.

Startled out of his thoughts, Erik realized he was being rude. "Forgive me, my dear. It is no ordinary music; it is an opera, my magnum opus, and I'm afraid that its notes are rather…intoxicating."

Christine's eyes lit up at the mention of a new opera, which did not go unnoticed by her Maestro. "You, of course, will play the lead, Christine. It is written for you, no other will do it justice." He told her.

She nodded and smiled gleefully. "Oh, I simply cannot wait! A new opera, how exciting! And I its first leading lady?" she exclaimed.

Erik smiled in amusement at her glee. "Of course, it isn't anywhere near finished, but when it is, and I present it to the managers, all will know the truth of me…and of you." He told her.

She stopped then, and looked at him in confusion. "Truth of me? What truth? I am nothing compared to you, just a simple Servant." She looked down then, and scuffed her toe against the carpet. "I'm not even sure why you took an interest in me at all, Ange. You-you're so high above me, you're a King! Why would you ever pay any attention to the tiny, plain orphan who couldn't stop crying at night?" she asked in a small voice.

Erik's heart ached for her, and for all the pain she had suffered over the years since the loss of her father, and at the hands of the other dancers, in their cruel unconcern for the fragile, gentle-souled child she'd been-and the quiet, kind young woman she'd become. He grasped her chin gently in his hand, and tipped her face up to look at him. "You are far more than just a Servant, Christine, don't you ever doubt that. You glow, while they shine."

"What? What does that even mean, Angel?" she asked, tears beginning to well up.

"It means, that you emit a light, a beauty that is all your own, while they can only reflect what beauty is shone upon them. That is why I paid attention to you; why I took you under my wing, and made you into what you are now." He told her.

The tears that were welling now overflowed, and she leaned forward, burying her face into the silken comfort of his waistcoat, wrapping herself around his well-built frame.

He stood still for a moment, shocked that she would wish to touch him in this manner, but when he felt her tremble again, all thoughts except to comfort her in any way he could completely flew out of his mind. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her even closer. Hoping she would not stiffen and pull away, he slowly moved to stroke one hand down her curls of silken hair. Rather than pulling away, she sighed in contentment and simply rested against him.

After a while, Erik whispered quietly into her hair, "You had such a pure desire for music that I couldn't possibly fail to take notice. Not in anyone but myself have I ever seen this. It…moved me almost to tears, Christine, and I had believed that my heart, what was left of it, was made of stone. But you…since I agreed to be your Angel, Christine, you have…" he paused for a moment, desperately grasping for a word that would convey what he felt, and yet would not weaken him to speak. "You have…gentled me, Christine, at least somewhat. It is rather hard to sustain fiery hate against the cruel world when there is an adorable child with the voice of a raw angel looking at you like you are their salvation." He told her.

He felt her stiffen against him and begin to pull away, and he tightened his grip momentarily in panic, fearing that he had become too carried away in his words, high on the drug of her scent. He shut his eyes against her look of shock, dreading the expression in her eyes that would surely be disgusted at him now. Damn his unwary tongue! Had nearly two decades of solitude not been enough to learn to speak wisely and little? Clearly not. "Forgive me, Christine, please. I have been too forward, I did not mean to alarm you with my words. Just…forget I said them. Forget I was ever here!" he blurted, desperate to right his wrong. He moved to go, but was stopped by her hand on his sleeve.

"Angel…" she whispered. He did not move. "Angel, look at me, please." _**trust her…**_ an unfamiliar voice whispered. _**How are you to share a life with her if you don't trust her?...**_ it asked.

Deciding to trust the voice, he looked into her eyes, and furrowed his brow, seeing her tears.

"Angel, stay, please. You did not alarm me, far from it! It is only that…" she trailed off, blushing.

"Only that…what, Christine?"

"Only that…I have wished, for so long, to hear you say those words to me. Wished for them so ardently, and yet felt such guilt and shame for wanting to hear you say them." She admitted.

Time stopped abruptly. Erik stared at her for several endless moments, each detail of the tableau she presented etching themselves into his brain. "Christine, why would you feel guilty of anything? When you have not done anything wrong, especially?" he questioned, confused.

She looked up at him through her lashes. "Because…because it is wrong for a mere mortal to long for such things from a heavenly being!" she blurted out, her face turning scarlet from embarrassment. "It is wrong for one such as I to wish for the love and companionship of one of God's angels!" at that, she turned ashen as she realized just what she had said. She covered her mouth with one hand and held herself around her midsection with the other, whipping around so he could not see her face.

Time stopped yet again. This time, however, Erik's shock was far greater than before, as his mind rapidly tried to comprehend all of the implications of what she had just unwittingly admitted. His mouth opened and closed several times, everything he thought to say quickly being dismissed. _Did…did she just say she…_ _ **loved**_ _me?_ He asked himself. "Christine?..." he rasped.

Her frame tensed visibly. "Please, Maestro, forgive me. I never meant…that is, I would never assume…you couldn't possibly ever…just, please, forget I ever said anything! It was nothing but the fantasy of a starstruck young girl." She stammered.

"Christine…" he murmured, her embarrassed words confirming his fledgling suspicion…and bolstering his every once – foolish hope. "Christine, please, look at me." He begged.

Reluctantly, she turned around, clearly not wishing to, but loathe to disobey her master. She raised her eyes to his, her wide, luminous eyes wet with unshed tears. He slowly stepped towards her, the tension in the room rising with every footfall. "Christine…please, if what you say isn't true, I beg of you, tell me now. I must know the truth." He begged.

She swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. "It is true. I – I tried to deny it, but I can't anymore. I've wrestled with my feelings for so long, trying to deny them, to deny the sin of what I wanted so dearly. That night, when you came to me, you cannot imagine the joy and relief I felt in my heart, to know that what I had wished for perhaps could be, without damning us both to hell." She gazed straight into his eyes then. "I can't deny what I feel anymore, Maestro, and I don't _want_ to deny it. I love you." She said quietly.

Erik stared at her for several long moments, his heart pounding, and the blood it pumped roaring through his ears at a deafening volume. He felt light–headed, almost dizzy, as the room seemed to whirl around him, Christine the only object in focus. Visions suddenly swirled through his head, of a little girl with chocolate curls and smoky green eyes, sitting on Christine's lap while Christine combed her hair, a little boy with dirty blond hair and deep brown eyes sitting on a pony, squealing with delight. He saw himself sitting at a beautiful grand piano, in a great sunlit room with glass walls, filled with instruments and sheet music. He saw Christine sitting on a sofa next to a fire, cradling the little boy asleep in her arms while he told a story to the little girl, who was fighting sleep in order to listen to him. Then, he saw Christine closing a door, covering her lips with a finger to signal him to hush. He was no stranger to these visions – had, in fact, entertained them many times – but now, they didn't seem to be so inattainable. Now…everything he had dreamed of was within his very grasp. He just needed to reach for it. But dare he? Every attempt to grasp the happiness he craved in the past had ended in miserable failure, in pain and suffering. He had been rejected, belittled, tortured. He wasn't sure his heart could take another instance of such.

 _ **But who says this will end that way?**_ The unfamiliar voice asked again. _**Trust her…**_

Christine stared at him, fearing his response, his rejection of what little she could offer him. After all, what was she, really? Nothing. A Servant with some small penchant for singing that he had tutored. How could he possibly want her? There were others far more beautiful than she, more talented, without all of the sadness she still carried from her father's death.

"Christine…" he choked, finally returning his attention to her. "Christine…you must know, I have not had a happy life, I do not carry happy memories with me. _I am not normal, and I never will be._ My music, my Kingdom, it is the only thing of real value I have. I will never be able to accompany you in public, for fear of persecution and scorn. I should leave you now, and never again seek you out, never dare put a stain on your light, but god help me, I cannot. I love you, Christine, with all that I am, pitiful as it is." He told her, his voice thick with emotion and tears.

Sudden, complete, ecstatic joy bloomed to life in Christine's eyes. "Angel…" she whispered, unable to speak another word. The invitation clearly written on her face, he swept her into his arms once again, twirling her around the dressing room, both of them grinning madly like fools.

He set her down, and gazed into her eyes, losing himself in their sparkle. "Christine…" he murmured, as she closed her eyes and stood on her toes, tipping her chin up towards him. He slowly closed the gap between them, giving her plenty of time to pull away, amazed when she did not. Their lips met, and his eyes closed as well, to hide the grateful, joyous tears that were welling up in them. There would surely be much more to talk about, but for now, for tonight, it was only them, only this.

The next day at church, Meg was extremely suspicious of her friend. Mass was normally a very sober affair for Christine, who took her faith very seriously, but today, she wore a permanent, silly grin on her face. Her mother was clearly throwing disapproving glances at Christine, who took no notice of her guardian. Once Mass was over, Meg pulled Christine aside and looped her arm through her friend's. "Christine, what in the world is going on?" she hissed.

"Nothing, Meg! What are you talking about?" Christine hissed back.

"I've never seen you smile this much before, not even the first time we tried champagne and you drank half the bottle! What is going on?"

"Am I not simply allowed to be happy? It's a beautiful day on God's earth, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and all is right with the world! Why should I not smile?" she asked.

Meg glanced around. "Christine, it's cloudy and about to rain. The birds are all hiding in the rafters of the church we just left, and Cecelia is going to catch cold because she forgot her shawl yet again. Tell me the truth!" she demanded.

Christine rolled her eyes. "Fine, Meg. But not here. Wait until we're back in our room, where it's private."

Once they were back, meg closed the door firmly behind her and locked it. "All right, Christine, we're back. Now, tell me!" she insisted.

Christine flopped down on her back on her bed, grinning madly once again. "Well, last night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I stayed up in my dressing room." She began.

"Yes? And?" meg prompted her.

"Don't interrupt me! Well, my Angel visited me there, Meg! He came back!" Christine revealed.

"That's it? You great ninny, you had me all worked up for nothing!" Meg huffed, disappointed.

"No, that's not it, you goose! He told me that he's been composing an opera, and he wants me to play the leading lady! Isn't it exciting!"

"Oh, yes! Christine, that's amazing! But I know you, you've still got more to say. Out with it!"

Christine looked down at her clasped hands, her eyes shining with mirth. "Meg, he loves me. He told me so. And I love him!" she revealed.

Meg's mouth dropped open in shock, and she froze for a second. _He…loves her?_ "Christine…" she began carefully. "How can you know you love him? You barely know him! And how can you know he loves you? Christine, he lied to you for years, deceived you. How do you know this isn't yet another trick?"

Dark anger welled up inside Christine. "I love him, Meg! And he loves me! Yes, he is but a man, and yes, he tricked me for all those years, but what harm has come of it? I was lonely and heartbroken, grieving for my father, and he comforted me and brought me back. Without his interference I likely would have perished, Meg, because I was refusing to eat! Besides, did not your Maman use to tell us stories of Papa Noel? How is this different?" she asked, affronted.

"Christine, we figured out Papa Noel is but a story when we were ten. Up until two weeks ago, you still believed that you were being taught by an Angel! Can you not see-"

Christine cut her off. "Meg, stop this. He's a good, kind man, his voice is perfection itself, and besides, in all his commands, has anyone ever truly come to harm? What happened to Carlotta may have been mean-spirited, yes, but wouldn't anyone else in this theatre dearly love to do the same?"

Meg's eyes widened. _Wait…her mysterious suitor is the one who stole Carlotta's voice? And dropped the background on her? He's the one who's been sending all those notes?_ "Christine…please, say you are joking! You cannot mean what I think you are saying!" at the questining look she received, she whispered "You're in love with the Phantome!"

Christine lowered her eyes to the carpet, then raised them to meet Meg's. "Yes, I am. He rules the opera house, Meg, surely your Maman has told you stories? You know who he is, and you know he isn't what the silly ballet girls who love so much to gossip say he is. You know he's good." She murmured quietly.

A knock suddenly came at the door. "Meg? Christine? Are you in there? I must speak with you both." The voice of Madame Giry came from the other side.

Meg sighed in relief. _Maman will be able to talk sense into her! Thank the lord!_ Madame Giry entered, and Meg immediately ran up to her as soon as the door was shut. "Maman, please, listen to me, Christine just told me that she talked to her _Angel_ last night, and that the two of them are in love!" she babbled rapidly.

"Slowly, ma cheri! I cannot understand you when your mouth runs ahead of your mind." Madame scolded. "Now, what is this? Christine, is this true?" she asked.

She nodded. "Yes Madame Giry, it is. He came to my dressing room last night, when I asked him to, and we finally had an opportunity to talk, and he explained some things to me." She smiled then, and said dreamily, "He loves me, Madame, he told me so. And I love him."

Madame Giry looked at her sharply. "Christine, listen to me carefully, and answer my questions truthfully: did he ask you for your hand?"

Christine blushed bright red, and Meg gave a smug smile. _I knew it! I knew he was only toying with her!_ Then the smile disappeared. _Oh, poor Christine. She truly must feel something for him. The cad!_

"Not directly, no, Madame Giry, although he did suggest that he would do so in the near future. I heard him mutter to himself just as he left – something about a ring, and a voice? I think he's planning something grand." Christine answered.

Madame Giry nodded once, sharply, and then, to Meg's horror, a large smile broke on her face. She pulled Christine into her arms, saying, "Congratulations, my dear girl. Indeed, your father was right about you; he told me that ever since you were a young girl, all you ever wanted was music. When next you see him, tell him to speak to me; I will gladly give my consent, mon chere." She pulled back, and held Christine at arms length from her, grasping her shoulders tightly, and looking her straight in the eyes very seriously. "He will make a good husband to you, my girl; but do not forget, that as Queen of both his heart and kingdom beside him, you must act like a Queen as well. I do not want to hear of any improprieties, do you understand me?" she asked severely. Christine nodded quickly. "Well, I trust you, Christine. You and Meg were always good girls, unlike some of the others, always looking for a rich patron. Bah! Heed me well, both of you, always take care where men are concerned. Even well-intentioned ones can be blinded and led astray by their passions. You must be careful of them." She warned them.

 **A/N: I'm so sorry! I honestly meant to have this up before February, but then this stupid thing called life got in my way. Now, if you read through this quickly, you're going to miss a lot of foreshadowing, so I would highly recommend going back through and reading again. Please feel free to pm me with any questions you may have, I'll do my best to explain. Please review!**


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